Harry Potter and the Whiffle Ball of Wizardry
The night glittered like the feces of a unicorn. Harry Potter ran into the Forbidden Forest, bat in hand, his legs scraped from the branches of the Slashing Saplings that he'd encountered a few meters back.
"Come on, Ron!" he shouted. "Hermione, let's go! I want to get some innings in before we get caught!"
Sure as eggs is eggs, Ron Weasley – a tall yet unathletic fellow – huffed and puffed through a bramble of branches. "Snape is going to totally make us blow him," he wheezed. "I can't suffer through another detention session." He shuddered, as if recalling a painful memory. "The smell. Oh Merlin, Order of the First Class, the smell-"
"Well, we wouldn't have to worry about that if we'd just stayed in the castle," came a voice from the bushes. Hermione's tussle of hair popped over the top.
"What were you doing behind there?" Harry asked.
"I was urinating," she replied.
"You're a what?" Ron cried.
"No, no," Hermione groaned, adjusting her skirt. "I was pissing."
"You're a pissing?"
Harry whacked his friend with the bat. Ron fell over, unconscious. "Oh dear," Harry muttered. "I seem to have killed my best friend."
Hermione knelt down and felt Ron's balls for a pulse. "Yes, he's certainly dead." She rose and sighed. "I should cry, but I don't feel like I'm in the right character to do so."
"And we've forgotten the ball, anyway," Harry added, spinning apropos of nothing. "So whiffling is completely out of the question."
Hermione reached out and grabbed Harry's hand. "It seems," she said, "that our being in this forest is devoid of meaning."
"Much like all life, really," Harry said, caressing his friend's shoulder. He noticed the sinking neckline of her blouse. "Devoid of meaning, we tread the fabric of space and time until our legs give out, and we float breathless into the great beyond."
"Slaves to a cosmos which we cannot even fathom," Hermione croaked. The bulge growing in Harry's pants distracted her.
Harry lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. "Let's make love," he crooned, "over the decaying vessel of life below us."
"How gross," Hermione spat. "And yet, so romantic."
Their clothes disappeared without either of them uttering a single spell. Harry inserted himself into the witch, who accepted him with open arms and legs and everything else that would separate. Ron Weasley's body cracked and caved under the weight and rollicking of the lovers thrusting atop him.
Another red head – a girl – ran to the site of the smut, holding a white ball in her hand. "Ron! Ron, you forgot your ball-"
"Ginny?"
The ball dropped to the forest floor. The youngest Weasley made a small sound as she saw her lover below Hermione Granger, her choking him as she seated herself on his blood-filled penis. The bat stuck out of her brother's throat, shoved in with great force like an enema put in the wrong way.
Somewhere hundreds of miles away, the innocent soul of a young Harry Potter fan died as they irresponsibly surfed the Internet.
Fin.
(A/N: There are more of these yet. Do you dare to continue reading my tales? Do you dare, you sausage-sniveling serpents? You silly sassafras savages? You simpleton sangria sucking saltine snackers? Stay tunes.)